Aubade

As curtain edges are growing light
Poet Larkin comes with his aubade
Hung over song of solitude in death
Before new day begins in contrition.

Man here recalls a night of dreams
He had made from daughter’s jewel.
Her wedding is far off for the jewel.

Meantime liquid dreams are made.
If only fucking curtain edges do not
Grow light , in such frightful hurry.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s